Whitman hears varied carols,
A unified song.

Has the song stopped? Or
Are we tone-deaf?

Building fences to remind
Us of dead kids.

A stone per name, a
Petrified forest family.

The family we know
Is fractured, drained.

Guilt, you say?  Guilt?
The toe-head’s a killer.

Assign a platform to us.
Wooden grief and angst.

Can pistols be bargained
Away?  For an id card?

The father, back from hell,
A be-medaled veteran.

A backyard bee-bee gun
Makes my boy a man.

He shoots with an open
Mouth and cries his song.

The flesh is cold as rock.
It stings like death.

The Mom is absent and
Mute in her glacier.


Our tale’s a mesmerizing
Witness to parental faith.


As much a game as shooting
Gophers in the snow.